


the sakusa kiyoomi listography

by wordstruck



Series: flutterbird (a collection of sakuatsu one-shots) [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (tbh it's not THAT angsty? not by my standards at least), Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Break Up, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:40:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23946322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/wordstruck
Summary: There is a list in Kiyoomi’s head that he started three weeks ago. He updates it as he goes, because he keeps needing new entries, because his head (notheart) has gone rogue on him on this one specific, pointed issue.This Is How You Get Over Miya Atsumu
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: flutterbird (a collection of sakuatsu one-shots) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643680
Comments: 89
Kudos: 1077





	the sakusa kiyoomi listography

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is largely an experiment in terms of both narrative style and character pov. i thought about doing it from atsumu's perspective at first tbh, but — idk, i like it from sakusa's better. and the idea of a list as a narrative device of sorts wouldn't leave me alone and i rly wanted to weaponise it in some sort of internal monologue. so here we are.
> 
> this was actually supposed to be for sakuatsu week (day five, tier one — misunderstanding; and three — "all the very best of us string ourselves up for love") but i couldn't for the life of me figure out the ending. but after days of poking it with a stick + [rachel's](https://twitter.com/ceryna_writes) help (ur a savior) i figured something out? and now i'm yeeting it into the void before i start going at it with a pickaxe. 
> 
> thank u again rachel for beta-ing this for me ;A; will edit any further errors in retrospect. enjoy!

* * *

There is a list in Kiyoomi’s head that he started three weeks ago.

It’s filed away in the compartments of his mind, beneath the groceries he needs to get on his way home and the attack variations he imagines trying on the court. He updates it as he goes, because he keeps needing new entries, because his head ( _not_ heart) has gone rogue on him on this one specific, pointed issue.

He scowls as he finds himself slowing down outside the cafe near their gym, and mentally underlines the title one more time.

**This Is How You Get Over Miya Atsumu**

He hates that he has a list. He hates that he keeps adding entries as necessary. It shouldn’t be necessary, he shouldn’t feel so upturned, _upended._ All he has to do is readjust to how he was _before_ Miya Atsumu had sauntered into his life ( _not_ heart) and decided to put down roots. He’s had twenty-two-and-a-half years of experience. It isn’t hard.

(It’s not.)

Supermarket to stock his kitchen. Check mailbox at the entrance. Unlock door, change to common room slippers, wash hands. Wipe groceries. Do not listen to the apartment next door.

Kiyoomi makes curry for dinner, _not_ out of habit. It’s not a habit.

(It’s not.)

The list starts off like this:

 **1\. Stop fucking thinking about him** , which is easier said than done given that they’re still teammates, and Atsumu’s still his setter and next-door neighbor. Atsumu is an irritating and unwelcome everyday presence — training, team dinner, walk home, trash day. Kiyoomi has always hated his polite little smiles and he hates them even more now when he comes across Atsumu on the stairs, _ah Sakusa-kun, good morning._

It’s not a good morning.

(Sit up, slip on bedroom slippers. This is the third night he’s worn these pajamas, so into the laundry basket. Bathroom slippers. Water on — hands, arms, neck, face. Third day for this towel, so into the laundry basket. There’s only one toothbrush by the sink.

Kiyoomi stares at his reflection. A year ago he’d never bothered learning much about his own body, and now he knows he has nine beauty marks, including three that form a scalene triangle in the dip of his shoulder blade where he can’t see.

There’s another one in the hollow of his shoulder. He reaches up, fingers hovering over skin. He needs to start the shower now so it’s the appropriate temperature by the time he’s picked out his clothes.

There’s only one brand of body wash in the cubby.)

Two days after Kiyoomi makes entry number one, he amends it to **1a. stop fucking thinking about him unnecessarily** (never mind that making yourself _not_ think about something is still thinking about it) (never mind the Tommy February6 playing in the next door apartment) (never mind the way the sun dapples bleached hair) (never mind _never mind_ ) ( **1b. don’t mind him, don’t** ).

Kiyoomi is slightly late to practice that day, and everyone’s concerned reactions just piss him off more. Fortunately, he has volleyball.

**2\. Atsumu is just a setter** which is fairly easy to remember so long as Kiyoomi is moving on the court. He doesn’t have to think when time is defined by jump and serve — jump and block — jump and spike — dive and receive — again, again, again. Atsumu is just one of six people on his side of the court and all that matters is the ball. Atsumu is just a means to score a point and all that matters is the ball.

(Atsumu tosses the ball five times in a row to Bokuto and if Kiyoomi’s hand hits empty air one more time he’s going to hit a person next.)

Kiyoomi wants to call him out on it — demand the next set, the next four points — but **3\. don’t talk to him more than necessary** . The mutual silence between them (except for _nice kill_ , except for _one touch_ , except for _higher_ ) is a thin veneer of paint and Kiyoomi does not have the desire to deal with the botched cement underneath. There are six of them on the court and **2\. Atsumu is just a setter** , just one of six players. 

Hinata is frowning at him oddly from across the net. Kiyoomi fixes him with a flat glare. The frown quickly morphs into a mortified fluster, and then Hinata is scampering away.

The whistle blows, signalling the end of the practice set. Kiyoomi swipes the back of his hand over his forehead and stalks off the court.

Unpack towel. Pat down face. Pat down hands. Pat down hands. Water bottle — clean spigot, once twice thrice. Kiyoomi’s expression scrunches at the feeling of bangs plastered to his forehead. He should schedule a haircut soon.

Something enters his peripheral vision. “Here,” oh it’s Atsumu, oh he’s standing an arm’s length away. He’s holding one of Kiyoomi’s spare practice jerseys in its resealable bag. “Change quick, we’re shufflin’ teams soon.”

(Yes Kiyoomi had been considering changing jerseys, discomfort at sticky cloth already creeping up his spine. No he does not need Atsumu to call that out.)

He considers not taking the jersey. He considers just walking away. He considers **3\. don’t talk to him more than necessary** , but surely a _thank you_ doesn’t count?

“Thank you,” he says, taking the bag. Atsumu is an arm’s length away. Kiyoomi doesn’t need to say anything more.

“Move yer ass,” Atsumu says, but Kiyoomi can hear the _you’re welcome_. 

( **3a. don’t read too much into the things he** **_does_ ** **say, either** )

Kiyoomi had cleaned out his entire apartment the day after his front door had closed quietly in the night, but **4\. stop hanging on to traces of him** is still stupidly necessary. Atsumu hadn’t even left much at his apartment, because Kiyoomi has specific ways in which specific things go, but. There’s still an empty space beside meticulously-folded piles of shirts and sweaters. There’s still an empty space Kiyoomi absentmindedly leaves on the couch. There’s still an empty space between Kiyoomi’s hand and the doorknob before he remembers he’s not welcome anymore in the apartment next door.

The traces linger in habits Kiyoomi hadn’t even realized he’d formed. It takes 21 days to form a habit, according to Bokuto’s internet research. He has no idea how long it takes to undo one.

(Clearly, far too long.)

Part of Kiyoomi wishes he could dump his stuff to the floor in frustration, but he hasn’t vacuumed yet this week. Instead, he unpacks — dirty uniforms to the hamper. (Laundry day in two days.) Empty resealable bags into the sink with his water jug. Shoes by the shoe rack. (Cleaning day in two days.) Everything else stays.

Eight o’clock, time to cook dinner. Kiyoomi distracts himself by thinking of their upcoming match against the Osei Archers while he takes down pots to clean before cooking. He wipes down the counter before setting out the ingredients. He’s halfway through chopping potatoes before he realizes he’s making curry.

(It’s not habit, it’s not.) ( **4a. stop hanging on to traces** ) ( **4b. curry counts** )

He still eats, because he won’t waste food and it tastes fine, anyway. As he turns on the shower (bathroom slippers) to let it warm up, he makes a mental note to stop buying roux for a while. He underlines it as he gets a new pair of pajamas from the closet (bedroom slippers). He is not wearing less red these days because Atsumu had said it looks nice against his skin.

( **4c. red sweaters count** )

Tommy February6 trickles faintly through the wall from the apartment next door.

( **1b. don’t mind him, don’t** )

Kiyoomi realizes at some point that his list doesn’t make much grammatical or structural sense, but it’s fine since no one’s ever actually going to read it. He feels vindictive as he adds **5\. of course he smiles at other people** , because of course Atsumu does. He’s very free with candid emotions — anger (bad toss, missed serve); joy (successful toss, service ace, victory); satisfaction (Hinata’s quick attack, Bokuto’s cut shot, Inunaki’s receive perfectly falling to the setter spot); frustration (Kiyoomi shaking off Atsumu’s hands, Kiyoomi shifting away on the couch, Kiyoomi).

There had been a smile just for Kiyoomi, before. There are more soft edges to Atsumu than most people think — Kiyoomi remembers putting a palm over that smile to check. It hadn’t hurt when lips had parted over his skin in reverence. Atsumu’s gaze at the time had been sharp, had cut Kiyoomi down to bone, but his mouth had—

( **4\. stop hanging on to traces of him** )

( **1b. don’t mind him, don’t** )

Atsumu grins at the crowds of girls, at fans, at Hinata. Kiyoomi thinks, darkly, _we are consequences of our own making._ He’s even making a whole list dedicated to consequences in his head, because clearly at some point he’d absorbed the dramatic tendencies of a certain blonde asshole by osmosis.

The absence of that small, soft-edged smile is just another consequence. It doesn’t appear around Kiyoomi anymore, but it doesn’t appear around other people either. There are other smiles, because **5\. of course Atsumu smiles at other people** , because **5a. he has other people to smile at**. Kiyoomi has no idea where he’s going with this line of thought and dismisses it forcefully because **1a. stop fucking thinking about him unnecessarily**.

The next toss comes Kiyoomi’s way and he swings on instinct, because he still has volleyball. The straight shot clips the inside of the line, rebounding with a satisfying thud. He lands softly on his feet, flexing his hand open-close, open-close.

“Hm.” Atsumu is an arm’s length away, to Kiyoomi’s left. Kiyoomi glances at him, just a glance ( **2\. Atsumu is just a setter** ) ( **3\. don’t talk to him unnecessarily** ).

“What?” (This is fine.)

A corner of Atsumu’s mouth quirks up, cat-canary amusement. “I set that one a bit high,” he admits, “but ya still hit it. Looks like ya _can_ hit higher.”

Kiyoomi blinks. Atsumu grins wider.

“Nice kill,” he says, and there is a there-and-gone-again moment where his smile maybe softens, maybe, possibly, perhaps. Kiyoomi makes a disparaging noise and leaves to go get a drink (pat down face, pat down hands, wipe spigot).

( **3b. don’t read too much into the things he does or doesn’t do, either, either** )

When Kiyoomi makes dinner that night, it isn’t curry. He hasn’t tossed out the box of roux, because that would be a waste, but he doesn’t cook with it. He ignores the smell of curry wafting in through his balcony, from the apartment next door.

Many people wonder why Kiyoomi plays competitive volleyball. Kiyoomi supposes if he looks at it from an outside perspective, it’s an understandable curiosity. He takes comfort in constants and routine, and volleyball is a collection of constants and routine. It’s a series of repetitive motions — serve, receive, set, spike — one side of the court to the other. Ball to the floor for a point. Twenty-five points to a set. Three sets to victory.

Atsumu had, at some point, insinuated himself into Kiyoomi’s routines and constants, which is _extremely fucking annoying._ Kiyoomi finds himself gravitating to Atsumu not like a comet pulled to a surface, but like a planet securely orbiting from a distance. Kiyoomi has few enough people he’s comfortable being in close proximity with; Atsumu has — had firmly established himself as one, and that is biting Kiyoomi in the ass spectacularly. 

When he finds himself half-oriented towards Atsumu while they’re standing on the court during a lull in practice, Kiyoomi scowls deeper and **6\. quit wanting him nearby**. Atsumu isn’t there anymore to stand between Kiyoomi and other people, or bring tumblers to Kiyoomi doesn’t have to use cafe cups, or carry spare packs of sanitary wipes just in case. 

(Kiyoomi makes an exception to item number one to wonder just when Atsumu had adapted a love language specifically to him, to Sakusa Kiyoomi, and when Atsumu had unadapted it so that it feels he’d never been with Kiyoomi at all.) (Surely Atsumu is also hung up on this.) (Surely he’s even worse off than Kiyoomi, how could he not be.) (Surely Atsumu is also making some sort of goddamn how-to list in his head because surely he isn’t already over this, surely—

**1\. Stop fucking thinking about him**

**1c. Stop it**

**1d. Stop**

**1e.** **_Stop_ **

“Sakusa-kun?” No, no Atsumu has _no_ right to be calling him that in a voice that’s all civil tones and perfect inflections. This isn’t what he sounds like, this isn’t how he _is_ , but fuck Kiyoomi if he doesn’t half-orient himself towards the other man.

“ _What_ ,” he hisses, piecing together a scowl.

 _Now,_ now there is a break in Atsumu’s composure. His brow furrows and his lips part on a hesitation; there’s the tiniest flinch in his expression. Kiyoomi feels a corner of his own mouth twitch, a stab of something vindictive.

“Jeez, ease up a bit, wouldja?” Atsumu is an arm’s length away, huffing a small laugh. One hand makes an aborted gesture towards Kiyoomi, as if — Kiyoomi leans towards it, just a little — then Atsumu runs his fingers through that stupid haircut, sheepish. “Just wanna know if ya wanna try this new pipe — see Shouyo was thinkin’, what with yer peak spike bein’ higher—”

(Kiyoomi is not an envious person. He is _practical,_ which doesn’t lend itself much to envy. He isn’t envious of Ushijima’s power because Ushijima is simply built different from him and he can accept that. He isn’t envious of Bokuto’s never-ending supply of energy because it’s exhausting just thinking about it, much less _being_ that way, and he can accept that. He isn’t envious of Hoshiumi’s demanding on-court presence because drawing attention to himself is, for Kiyoomi, a horrible concept, and he can accept that. If there is something he wants, then he either gets it, or he rationalizes it in his head until he decides it is impractical to want it.

But then Atsumu looks over his shoulder when he says _Shouyo_ and **5\. of course he smiles at other people** but there’s a quirk to the smile on Atsumu’s face but **2\. Atsumu is just a setter** but **3b. don’t read too much into the things he does or doesn’t do** but **6b. quit wanting**.)

“—we could maybe try ta—”

“Make Koutarou-kun do it,” Kiyoomi snaps, and stalks off to practice serves instead.

The stupid fucking list has grown into a jumbled mess in Kiyoomi’s head and there are entirely too many things to remember, now. 

Later that night, after Kiyoomi has finished putting things away but before he has started on dinner, there is a knock on his door. He frowns, because he doesn’t really have visitors. Few people know they’re allowed to come over, and he has no idea who it might be at this time of night. If it’s Bokuto with another hairbrained idea to _cheer you up!_ then Kiyoomi is going to—

“If yer gonna kill me, couldja do it after I finish delivering, yeah?” Osamu deadpans, holding up a paper bag. 

Kiyoomi blinks, feeling absolutely thrown. ( **7\. Osamu is not his brother** , painfully obvious, but still needs reminding. Kiyoomi has nothing against Osamu in all this.) “I didn’t order that.”

“And I’m givin’ it t’ ya anyway.” Osamu raises an eyebrow. When Kiyoomi continues to look at the paper bag, he huffs and carefully holds it out, just shy of touching Kiyoomi’s chest. “Don’tcha worry, ‘s on the house.”

Kiyoomi reluctantly lets the bag settle in his hands. It’s double-bagged, actually, with the onigiri in a plastic container. Still, it’s warm to his palms. “What’s—”

“Minced honey garlic pork.” Osamu shrugs. Kiyoomi keeps staring at the bag.

“I never told you that,” he says faintly.

“ _You_ didn’t tell me,” Osamu points out. “You good?”

Kiyoomi pauses. There are many possible implications to that question, such as can Osamu leave? (Yes now please.) Is Kiyoomi accepting the onigiri? (Yes, although with some confusion.) Does Kiyoomi understand why he is receiving onigiri? (Not entirely.) Is Kiyoomi okay?

(Is he?)

But **7\. Osamu is not his brother** , so Kiyoomi simply steps back and nods.

“Thanks,” he says, looking somewhere to Osamu’s left. “Won’t have to cook now.”

Osamu snorts, then turns away with a lazy wave. Kiyoomi closes the door, then leans back against it. He risks getting his sweatpants dirty and sinks down onto the welcome mat. The paper bag of onigiri settles against his chest. It’s warm.

Kiyoomi has never told Osamu his favorite food, which means Atsumu has told Osamu about Kiyoomi’s favorite food, which means Atsumu has somehow wrangled Osamu into making this particular kind of onigiri which is not on the menu. And Atsumu only knows Kiyoomi likes honey garlic pork because he’d asked one afternoon, _the fuck d’ya like ta eat, even?_ and Kiyoomi had pondered a few moments before answering.

( **3b. don’t read too much into the things he does or doesn’t do** )

Outside his door, Kiyoomi can hear Osamu letting himself into Atsumu’s apartment; can hear the two of them start sniping at each other. He knows Atsumu’s onigiri will have minced tuna and spring onions. He knows this like he knows Atsumu uses apple-scented shampoo, wears the same sweatpants from high school, picks out peas from his food.

 **1a. stop fucking thinking about him unnecessarily** but Kiyoomi’s thinking anyway.

This is the big fucking problem with having become attached to Miya Atsumu: Kiyoomi is the upfront and blunt type. Atsumu is the upending type.

He should put the paper bag on the kitchen counter. He should put the onigiri on the plate. He should remind himself of items number one, four, six-b, the entire goddamn bullshit list he’s been compiling in his head for the last three shitty weeks.

The paper bag of onigiri, _his_ onigiri, is warm. Kiyoomi inhales, exhales.

 _Yes,_ he feels upended but **8\. Atsumu was the one who walked away** , never mind that Kiyoomi had been the one to push and push ( **8a. he walked away** ). Never mind that Kiyoomi had been the one to wake up one morning with Atsumu beside him and then had panicked ( **8b.** ** _he_** **walked away** ). Never mind that Kiyoomi and his endless hesitations had driven their relationship into a corner ( **8c. he left** ) and Atsumu had fought too hard ( **8d. he** ** _left_** ) while Kiyoomi had been too quick to let go ( **8e.** ** _he left_** ). Kiyoomi refuses to feel sorry for the version of himself that had stood in his kitchen and listened to his front door close quietly in the night ( **8f. he walked away from you** ).

They were and then they were not, which happens. It _happens_. It happens, so Kiyoomi just has to **9\. move on**. There are no more soft smiles and softer edges, no more careful careless touches. There are no more telegraphed motions so Kiyoomi can anticipate the sunburst of warmth. There is no more off-key singing in his kitchen in the mornings.

People leave, it happens. And now he’s making a list so he can **9\. move on**.

Kiyoomi only eats the onigiri because it would be a waste not to, because he likes honey garlic pork, because he doesn’t feel like cooking. He jams his headphones on so he no longer hears the apartment next door. It’s Monday tomorrow, they don’t have practice.

It takes a while for him to fall asleep that night.

In the morning, Kiyoomi wakes up to his alarm. He sits up (bedroom slippers) then walks to the bathroom (change slippers). Water on — hands, arms, neck, face. He’s going for a run this morning, so no need yet to shower. He changes into track pants and a compression shirt. Straps on his armband. Slings his Bluetooth earphones around his neck. Goes to the kitchen for something light to eat (change slippers).

When he opens his front door (running shoes), he finds Atsumu standing outside with his fist raised.

“Ah,” Atsumu huffs, at the same time Kiyoomi says, “The fuck?”

They have a stare-off. Atsumu’s eyebrows go up. Kiyoomi considers shutting the door in his face. He considers shoving past Atsumu and leaving.

“What do you want,” he demands flatly.

Atsumu shuffles until he’s an arm’s length away. ( **6\. quit wanting him nearby** ) He gestures towards Kiyoomi’s kitchen. “Need that plastic container back for Samu.”

( **3b. don’t read too much into the things he does or doesn’t do** )

There is another pause, then Kiyoomi makes an about-turn. He toes off his running shoes and puts on his common room slippers, then stomps into his kitchen. Shoves the washed plastic container into a fresh paper bag. Stomps back to the genkan. Atsumu is still standing in his doorway like he belongs there. (He did.) (Not in the doorway, but inside the **1d. Stop 1e. _Stop_** )

“Here.” Kiyoomi shoves the bag at him. It thumps against Atsumu’s chest and he almost doesn’t catch it when Kiyoomi lets it go. That should be the end of that, but then Atsumu isn’t leaving and Kiyoomi’s entire morning schedule is going to be thrown off-course.

He’s about to shove his feet back into his running shoes when Atsumu asks, “You good?”

Kiyoomi stares, thrown as much by the question as the sense of deja vu. He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected this conversation. He needs to extract himself from this conversation, actually. He has a whole goddamn list of reasons for why a conversation between them at 8:30 in the morning shouldn’t even be happening.

( **3\. don’t talk to him unnecessarily** )

 _No,_ he wants to answer.

“The fuck do you care,” he says instead.

Atsumu frowns then, and apparently they _are_ having a conversation. In Kiyoomi’s doorway. “Wasn’t aware I shouldn’t.”

“You’re not even—” ( **3\. don’t talk to him unnecessarily** ) “ _We’re_ not—”

“Aren’t we?” Atsumu raises an eyebrow. “All I remember sayin’ was I was goin’ and givin’ ya space so you could get over yerself.”

“You _left._ ” 

( **8\. Atsumu was the one who walked away** )

“For my apartment.” Atsumu raises both eyebrows. “Didja get over yerself yet?”

Kiyoomi can’t even dignify that with a response, partly because he feels vaguely insulted and partly because he doesn’t have anything _to_ get over. Except this whole entire relationship with Atsumu, which is why he’s making a list. Why he’s stopped making curry. Why he should go.

( **9\. move on** )

But there are more soft edges to Atsumu than most people think. Kiyoomi can see that in his expression, the way it goes wry and fond and exasperated. Atsumu tucks the paper bag to his side and sighs, as if he has any right to be sighing.

“Ya know,” he starts, “I get that yer all—” he gestures “—prickly ‘n shit, and ya got zero self-awareness—” Kiyoomi scowls “—but jeez, three weeks?”

Kiyoomi’s scowl deepens. He opens his mouth, but Atsumu keeps talking.

“So ya freaked out—”

“I did _not_.”

“But ‘s fine, I get it,” Atsumu goes on, bulldozing through Kiyoomi’s interruptions. “Figured it’d take a while to get through yer thick fuckin’ skull. Nothin’ I didn’t sign up for.”

“Get _out_ of my—”

“You oughta get by now I ain’t gonna push but I ain’t gonna go anywhere either. You’re it. Just you.”

And that — Kiyoomi stills. His mouth closes. Atsumu shrugs. They’re still in the fucking doorway.

“‘M here, ain’t I?” Atsumu says, careless, casual, and Kiyoomi — oh.

(The Shinhotaka Ropeway trip feels like a lifetime ago, but he remembers.)

There is a nine item list in Kiyoomi’s head, complete with amendments and appendices. And standing in the genkan at 8:53am on a Monday morning, he realizes he hadn’t even needed it at all.

Three weeks of frustration and sulking and (unnecessary) mental notes come to an abrupt halt. Kiyoomi could almost laugh at the stupidity of it all. He looks at Atsumu and thinks about him being there, on the other side of a wall, for three weeks.

Then he frowns, looks at Atsumu, and thinks _three weeks._

What the fuck.

“So you’ve what, been waiting around this entire time?”

“Wha— no.” There is a telltale creep of pink over the bridge of Atsumu’s nose. “ _No._ ” Kiyoomi just looks at him until Atsumu’s expression scrunches. “Ye— look, it doesn’t matter. Fuck off.”

Kiyoomi squints. “This is why Osamu-kun brought me onigiri.”

“No, that’s just ‘cause he’s a nosy fuckin’ bastard—” Atsumu snaps his mouth shut and looks to the left. “Anyway, just. Couldja get it already? I keep makin’ curry for two for dinner and it’s pissin’ me off.”

There is a box of curry roux shoved to the back of Kiyoomi’s cabinets because he’d had to make himself stop cooking curry. Kiyoomi thinks about that, and about all the spaces he still leaves around. About Osamu bringing him honey garlic pork onigiri. About Atsumu at arm’s length, about soft edges.

Atsumu tips his head and asks, again, “You good?”

Kiyoomi considers all the implications of that question. Is he healthy? (Yes.) Is he okay with Atsumu being in his life again? (Mostly. Atsumu will still piss him off half the time.) Is he accepting Atsumu’s own version of an apology? (Debatable, but that’s also because he’s stubborn in his own right.) Does he understand that he’d panicked at the overwhelming realization that Atsumu has made spaces for himself in Kiyoomi’s life and not only does Kiyoomi not mind, he maybe even _wants_ it? (Well.)

Atsumu just stands there and waits, looking like he always does in the mornings, sleep-worn and sun-warm. Awkward, and earnest, and still here.

Kiyoomi blinks, then looks at his ceiling. “Huh.”

The other man shifts his weight, cocking his head. “Okay?”

That makes him snort. “You’re an idiot.”

“Good, ‘cause — oi, _what._ ”

Kiyoomi wants to laugh and he wants to shut the door in Atsumu’s face. “You’re an idiot.”

“Oh _I’m_ the idiot, ya—”

“ _Three weeks_ ,” Kiyoomi retorts, incredulous. “You _left_ for _three weeks_.”

(He’d left. Atsumu was the one who’d walked away. Just — Kiyoomi had been the one to think it’d been permanent.)

“Yeah, well—” That brings Atsumu up short. His expression turns constipated. “Wasn’t like I could just _talk_ to ya—”

“ _Three fucking weeks_.”

“That’s big of ya, ya fuckin’ hypocrite.” Atsumu flaps a hand at him. “Yer the one who blew this outta proportion and thought we were _breaking up_ —”

“Those’re some real _big_ words there—”

“Yeah well you were makin’ a _big_ deal outta—”

Kiyoomi pretends to shut the door in Atsumu’s face. Atsumu lunges forward, shoving the paper bag into _Kiyoomi’s_ face. Kiyoomi staggers backwards, dragging the other man with him, until they topple into a heap beside the shoe rack. For a moment they lie there, winded and surprised, but then—

Atsumu cracks up first, a loud snort that turns into a bright and graceless laugh. Kiyoomi clamps his mouth shut but can feel the corners twitching, relief bubbling in his chest. And it’s stupid, it’s _so_ stupid, this entire fight and everything since has been so stupid, but Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu — pink cheeks, rumpled hair, crinkles at the corners of his eyes — and he just.

(He wants to keep seeing Atsumu laugh like that, for as long as they’re together.)

“Shit,” Atsumu gasps, untangling himself from Kiyoomi’s legs and rolling to sprawl out on the floor by his hip. He throws an arm over his eyes, chuckling weakly. “We’re both fucking morons.”

“Speak for yourself,” Kiyoomi mutters, but he’s smiling. 

“Fuck off.” Atsumu reaches out blindly and smacks Kiyoomi in the ribs. Kiyoomi shoves at him, but Atsumu doesn’t budge. His other arm slips off his face, expression turned wry. “Look — I’ll make ya a deal, fine.”

“No.”

“I haven’t even said what yet!”

“You don’t have to.”

Atsumu smacks at him again, though without any real effort. He tips his head to the side. “Next time — don’t gimme that look — next time, can you just.” He pauses, licking his lips. “We’ll talk it out, okay? I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Kiyoomi bites his lip, cradles his hands in his lap. He turns that thought over and over his mind. And Atsumu just lies there, quiet, waiting. Here, beside him. Not going anywhere.

“Okay,” he says. 

“Whoa — didja just agree with me?”

“Never mind.”

Atsumu jabs him in the side, to which Kiyoomi retaliates, until they devolve into a petty smack fight that only ends when Atsumu whacks his head on the shoe rack. It makes Kiyoomi choke on a laugh, muffling it beneath his closed fist. When he looks back up, Atsumu is watching him, expression soft and fond. It still overwhelms Kiyoomi, to be on the receiving end of this devotion ( _until when,_ his mind asks; until when, because there are a hundred ways in which this could, should, might end). And he still feels upended, but.

Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu lying breathless in his front hallway. He thinks about spaces, and habits, and soft edges.

He scraps the list.

* * *

the sakusa kiyoomi listography:

  
1\. stop fucking thinking about him  
1a. stop fucking thinking about him unnecessarily  
1b. don't mind him, don't  
1c. stop it  
1d. stop  
1e. _stop_  
2\. atsumu is just a setter  
3\. don't talk to him more than necessary  
3a. don't read too much into the things he does say, either  
3b. don't think about the things he does or doesn't do, either, either  
4\. stop hanging onto traces of him  
4a. stop hanging on to traces  
4b curry counts  
4c. red sweaters count  
5\. of course he smiles at other people  
5a. he has other people to smile at  
6\. quit wanting him nearby  
6a. quit wanting  
7\. osamu is not his brother  
8\. atsumu was the one who walked away  
8a. he walked away  
8b. _he_ walked away  
8c. he left  
8d. _he_ left  
8e. _he left_  
8f. he walked away from you  
9\. move on

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! pls let me know if i pulled the whole list thing off orz im very baby for comments. did the ending feel weird. also come say hi on twitter — i'm [@redluxite](https://twitter.com/redluxite) and i yell about haikyuu (+bnha, kny, vld, etc) a whole lot ^__^ you can also check there for ways to support my writing!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [the sakusa kiyoomi listography [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24300520) by [alstroemeria_thoughts (aurantiaca)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurantiaca/pseuds/alstroemeria_thoughts)




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